


Red is not the new Black

by AnnaBolena



Series: Red is not the new Black [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: I don't study criminal law so u have to suspend your disbelief for me a bit, I've also never been to prison, Men in love, Prison AU, Those protests were gonna go to shit eventually, has this been done before?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 03:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15677256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: A sharp click of an annoyed tongue, as the guard gestures towards the uniform meaningfully. Right, he is a prisoner. It doesn’t take long to change into the offensive garment, but his body does not settle into it well. Never one for heavy-handed metaphors, he has to admit that it feels like a prison all of its own, tight in all the wrong places and marking him as a penalized man. They don’t shave his head, contrary to all the horror stories he has heard about the French prison system. He supposes it would not matter on an aesthetic level. When has Enjolras ever cared about his physical appearance? But the indignity of it, the choice being taken out of his hands - that would have stung.a.k.a. Enjolras lands in Prison and tries to deal the AU





	Red is not the new Black

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so pls enjoy this  
> Warnings, obviously, cause they're in fucking prison, for attempted sexual assault and anything else you might associate with prison.

Enjolras stares at the bright orange fabric for a solid few minutes after the guard thrusts it into his hand. He’d been allowed to wear a suit for the trial, although he has no love for them. Perks of the family name, he supposes. The strings of his father’s influence, it seems, extend even into his imprisonment.

A sharp click of an annoyed tongue, as the guard gestures towards the uniform meaningfully. Right, he is a prisoner. It doesn’t take long to change into the offensive garment, but his body does not settle into it well. Never one for heavy-handed metaphors, he has to admit that it feels like a prison all of its own, tight in all the wrong places and marking him as a penalized man. They don’t shave his head, contrary to all the horror stories he has heard about the French prison system. He supposes it would not matter on an aesthetic level. When has Enjolras ever cared about his physical appearance? But the indignity of it, the choice being taken out of his hands - that would have stung. Five years of this. When he thinks of it he has to take a deep breath and close his eyes for a second. He recalls Marius’ words.

_"There’s a good chance we can cut the sentence by half, but only if you don’t cause any more trouble. Try to keep your head down, you know?"_

_"Far be it from me to tell you not to do something, but we want you back with us as soon as possible, Ange,"_ Combeferre had told him as he hugged him goodbye.

" _Exactly what he said_ , _Angel_ ," Courfeyrac had agreed and joined in on the hug, his English flawlessly accent-free in a way none of them have mastered. Enjolras is brash, to be sure, Enjolras is prone to extremes. But he can keep his head down, for his friends. He will do anything for his friends.

And so he literally keeps his head down as the warden leads him past the many rows of cells, two beds to one. He pointedly does not look at the leering faces. He tries his hardest to ignore the whispers of ‘fresh meat’ and even less tasteful insinuations. Still, they grate on him. These aren’t good people in here. Tension gathers in every part of him, locking him up tighter than the government ever could.

The warden comes to a stop in front of a suspiciously quiet cell. No one peers out of those bars, but the vague hope that he will have it to himself is shattered when he sees a figure hunched on the bed, curled up tightly and reading. Enjolras can’t make out the title of the book. The figure does not even look up as the door slides open. Their lips are moving, silently spelling out words no one can hear.

"He’s the quietest one we’ve got in here, never caused any trouble. Do tell your father it’s the best I could do for you when he asks, yeah?" He says, meaningfully, before ushering Enjolras inside of the cell. The door slides closed and Enjolras very carefully does not turn around to grab the bars as his last remainder of freedom is taken from him. It is tempting. A new experience, in a way, as he finally understands something he had previously dismissed as irrational whenever someone had done it on television.

What to do now? A countdown has started. Sixty months. God, it seems gargantuan. But breaking it down into days just seems even more daunting. And dividing his sentence into years would only serve to make him feel as though time has slowed to an abnormal crawl. He can't let it get him down. He'll get out eventually. Time does not stop for anyone. Holding on and waiting it out is the only viable option here, even if he itches to fight back. 

He isn’t made for prison, he knows. Enjolras is lanky and physically unimposing. The only way he gained the upper hand on the cop that was busy smashing Jehan into the pavement was by surprise and momentum as he pummeled him. It was rash and thoughtless, but all Enjolras could see was flaming red hair streaked with blood and an anguished cry amidst the general frenzy of the protest gone awry. He’s thought about it a lot, in the weeks since it happened. He’ll have even more time to think about it now, he supposes.

Would he have acted differently, in retrospect? Perhaps he should have stopped after he had pushed the man away from Jehan, instead of punching him until his face was bloodied. Yes, perhaps that would have been smarter. But still, he does not regret it. That man was derelict of duty, holding his friend down and rubbing his face open on the gravel. Jehan will bear the scars of that protest for the rest of his life and it is a damn shame.

But they are safe. All of his friends are safe and content and alive. He wouldn't risk changing that. It can't be changed in any case. Enjolras has many capabilities and virtues, but changing the past is not amongst them. Not everyone at that protest was as lucky. Combeferre told him of a few casualties. They achieved their purpose, Enjolras reminds himself. The bill they were fighting against did not pass. At least there is that. He has to hold onto the good things, in this soul-sucking hellhole. He did the right thing. Who knows what would have happened to Jehan otherwise? 

He looks at his cellmate, who has shown no indication of being aware of his presence so far. A broad man, he observes. He is tall as well, probably; it is hard to tell while he is lying down. His jumpsuit pulls tight across his chest and shoulders, as if, should he apply himself to the art of it, the play of his muscles underneath should liberate him of it quite swiftly. Unruly black curls fall into yet hidden eyes where they escape the knot on top of his head. Occasionally he will let out a huff of breath and the curls will dance for a second. He sports an unkempt beard, long enough to begin curling as well. Altogether it makes for a very unnerving picture, and Enjolras supposes he ought to be more intimidated, but the guy is reading Romeo and Juliet, for god’s sake. (Enjolras can make out the words on the battered cover in the dim light now. It is a worn-out edition, definitely from the prison library.) But anybody who reads Shakespeare in such an absorbed manner cannot possible pose too much of a threat, can they? Then again, he knows appearances can be deceiving.

 Should he introduce himself?

"I’m-"

He gets no further than that. Wide-open brown eyes lift to stare at him. There is a warning smattered amongst the flecks of green he can barely make out _. Do not tread any closer_ , the words go unspoken but they are plainly understood. For a while, blue eyes merely stare back as they seem to take the measure of one another. Enjolras swallows heavily. The cellmate, who by all accounts isn’t exactly old, shakes his head. If Enjolras had to put a number on it he would guess somewhere around thirty, maybe? Joly insists prison ages everyone prematurely, so maybe the guy is in actuality closer to Enjolras’ twenty-five. But he’s shaking his head. He cares little about building a rapport. And yet, to not make at least an effort means resigning himself to oblivion for the foreseeable future, and Enjolras is scared of that.

Enjolras will not be deterred. He has never faltered in the face of ignorance or resistance.

"-Julien," he finishes, carefully. The man shuts his eyes tightly, lips pulled taut, and nods. When his eyes open again they seem almost angry. Enjolras does not think he will speak to him, he does not seem inclined. It is disheartening, to say the least. Enjolras never considered that he might one day miss human interaction. He was always perfectly content to be by himself, basking in the knowledge that Combeferre or Courfeyrac were but a room or a call away. But the choice is taken away from him in prison. Now he can’t help it. He feels lonely. Alone. In a dark cell with a wide-eyed cellmate he isn’t sure can speak.

Maybe it is that he does not speak French? Should Enjolras try English?

Maybe tomorrow, he decides in the end, because the lights go out and slowly but surely so does the noise surrounding them. His cellmate extinguishes the lonely reading lamp shortly afterwards.

Darkness and quiet go well together.

+

Meal times are the most daunting, Enjolras easily finds out. After a few days of avoiding any and all contact he is sufficiently on edge and ready to lash out like a vicious animal at anyone who gets too close, keeping his head down be damned. He is not made to be cowed, never was, but prison is trying to force him into that mold. He longs to be brave once more, resolute and unwavering, but this is foreign and too much input and overwhelming. Prison operates under a set of rules he does not know nor understand. Keeping his head down is smart. He has to be smart to survive prison.

He walks on unsteady feet, tension coiled inside of him too tight to release, glancing around warily and never letting his eyes linger long enough to catch more undue attention. Bahorel had uttered a few well-meant words of advice about posture, but Enjolras is fucking scared and he is very aware that it shows. He cannot bring himself to straighten his shoulders and hold his head high. He might, if Courfeyrac and Combeferre were flanking him. Half of his intrepidity came from their support. His lack of assertiveness does not make the situation better. If anything, it makes it worse as he feels every eye keenly on him. Every whisper is suddenly about him, irrationally. He knows in actuality that cannot be the case, but he thinks it, certainly. Every voice could be gearing up for a taunt. Three days in prison struck off his countdown, and no one has approached him yet, but Enjolras feels their eyes appraise him, feels men circle him in the courtyard, trying to get the measure of him. Is Enjolras a threat? Is he fair game? He feels like a noose is drawing tight around his neck and the short drop into an uncertain beyond that inevitably follows comes ever closer.

"Eh, Blondie," a friendly voice calls out to him, followed by a remedied, " _Monsieur le blond_."

His eyes track the noise, landing on an old but oddly kind looking man, waving him towards a table where he sits with two other men, close to him in age. All three of them begin to grey, just a little. Are old men safer than men his age or are they predators in their own right? He grips his tray tight as he ponders his next step. Does he go to them? Is there a choice to be had? What if he does not go? Where does he go?  What are their intentions?

He is lost, so he complies. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Bahorel taught him a bit of self-defense before he was locked up. _Go for the neck_ , he’d said, _then the stomach, if all else fails the balls. Soft parts, Enjolras, get them winded and get to safety_. But where is safety, in prison? In his cell perhaps? They are only locked in at night. Other inmates could easily follow him in there. And there is his mysteriously quiet cellmate to contend with. Enjolras cannot figure him out. He reaches the table and sits down when the old, kindly looking man gestures towards the bench. "You’re new."

"I am."

The old man nods. "First timer too, eh?"

Now it is Enjolras’ turn to nod hesitantly. He thinks there might be innuendo hidden in those words for a second, but dismisses that thought quickly. The three men share a knowing look. "Figured as much. Best stick close then," the second one offers, "Lots of eyes on you. What’s your name?"

"What are yours?" He levels them with a first look that isn’t entirely colored by nausea.

"I am Mabeuf," the first one smiles, placing a large, dark brown hand on his own chest. The bright orange of his jumpsuit looks almost alarmingly neon by contrast. "This is Myriel," he jerks his thumb into the general direction of the second man that had spoken, a bit lighter in tone and with more hair to boast on his head still, coiling straight upwards in bright white springs.

"And our companion is Valjean, though you won’t be seeing much more of him, he’s due out in two months. How long are you in for?" The third man offers him a firm nod when introduced, but elects to say nothing. Perhaps he is another quiet one, but at least his eyes are warm.

"Five years," Enjolras whispers, poking his food with his fork warily. That’s something for Courfeyrac to gnaw on, he thinks, the state’s abysmal definition of a nutritious meal. Perhaps the man would like an exposé on the matter. Somehow Enjolras must keep himself busy, mustn’t he? He's only been in prison for a few days but he could already offer an in-depth list of too many violations of basic human rights. When he gets out, there'll be hell to pay for the state.

He expects follow-up questions, but all he receives is raised eyebrows and one slow whistle from Mabeuf.

"Lucky you. We’re in for life, us two."

"What did you do?" Enjolras, unreasonably scared and intimidated, asks. He got a sense that asking such a thing is considered bad etiquette, but damn his curiosity all to hell, he can’t help himself. How does someone so gentle and kind end up put away for all of his life?

"At first we were in for drugs," Myriel answers, pensievely. "Then those we shall call more politically-right minded took issue with having to share space with us folks when we first went public about the romantic aspect of our liaison, back in the nineties. One of them got too close and we killed him."

Oh. There’s a challenge in that voice, daring Enjolras to voice concerns he does not have about the gay 'lifestyle' and then promptly finding himself ejected from the newfound safety of their table.

"I did not know killing an inmate gets you a life sentence," he admits. There is too much he does not know.

"It does when you’re black and your victim has friends in very high places," Myriel says. His eyes are heavy-set, weighed down by guilt.

"It wasn’t right, killing him," Myriel elaborates when Enjolras makes a noise of faint outrage, "To take a life is never right. But we didn’t know what else to do, and it was him or us, eventually."

There’s a long and pregnant pause.

"So," Mabeuf finally breaks the stranglehold silence has all of them in. "Now you know our story. Can we know your name?"

"Enjolras," he says. Shocked silence, he expected as much. Then the third man, Valjean, speaks up.

"Best not say that too loudly around here. Your father is an influential man and harsh punishments for non-violent drug-related offences account for many of our fellow inmates. Better pick a nickname or something similar."

"You’ll have a hard enough time with your appearance as it is," Mabeuf sighs, shaking his head as if already mourning something Enjolras has not yet lost, "No need to add fuel to that fire."

He thinks on that for a while.

"My friends used to call me _ange_ ," he offers. It is tentative and the implication is not lost on anyone. All three men nod. Terms and conditions accepted, he supposes.

"Fitting, if a little too telling, perhaps. We’ll set you right soon enough. Five years must not be the end of you, _ange_ , if you play it right."

+

Enjolras settles into a routine that first month. He spends the night and evening and early morning in his cell, pretending like he isn’t observing the cellmate that still hasn’t spoken a word. Sometimes his cellmate looks at him and frowns studiously, trying to figure something out. What, Enjolras does not know, but he begins to feel less and less like a threat simply by his inaction. Still, a few words would be appreciated. Instead, the man will catch him looking and shake his head, face turning angry and dismissive for a split second before once more settling into a blankness that is unbecoming.

He thinks if his cellmate smiled his eyes would probably be quite attractive, crinkled at the corners to exude happiness. They are odd and intrusive thoughts and he does not want them.

He spends his days with Mabeuf and Myriel, occasionally Valjean. Valjean is often busy arranging a life outside of prison. He has little relatives left to wait for him, he confesses, but he does have a deceased friend’s daughter to liberate from foster care. He looks sunnily hopeful and it is a good look on the man. Enjolras wishes he could muster the same hope, but too often it fails him, at night especially, when there is only silence and intermittent noises of distress from his tossing and turning cellmate to keep his loneliness company. Time goes on, but the pace is all too slow for Enjolras. 

He gets visits from Combeferre and Courfeyrac twice a week. Marius stops by when he can to discuss how they will proceed. Truly, Enjolras had his doubts about Pontmercy when he first trailed Courfeyrac to their meetings, eyes bright and full of a naïve hope that the road to liberty could be paved with peace and happiness. But his heart is in the right place, and his unfailing loyalty throughout the trial and all their other hardships have suitably impressed Enjolras.

Joly and Bossuet come by once or twice those first two months. Bossuet’s leg is almost fully healed; he relies on the crutches with good humor now. Enjolras isn’t sure how much of their joviality is for his sake, but he hopes not too much. He should hate for his friends to be miserable just because he is. Bahorel brings Jehan by once, still recovering from having his face ground into the pavement but bravely holding back tears when he sees Enjolras in orange for the first time. "God, I would look terrible in that," Jehan whispers, voice breaking as he absent-mindedly touches his red hair. "You look resplendent, though, darling." It’s a valiant attempt, but Enjolras knows that he is already sporting signs of wear and tear. His face is paler, his cheeks more gaunt. He isn’t sleeping well. He spends his nights awake re-thinking half his life and spiraling into destructive thoughts.

Feuilly has work, they say, but he sends his regards and promises to come by soon. Enjolras misses him most, but that is probably just because he is the only one to remain absent, and not because of the little crush Courfeyrac used to tease him for good-naturedly. It wasn’t a crush, Enjolras would protest and roll his eyes, but he misses Feuilly now, and wishes he could be held again, just once. Bahorel sports hickeys on his neck when he visits, and Enjolras tries not to let his envy show. Bahorel is a good man, a great man, even, and those two are a good match. A better match than Enjolras, who is not made for relationships as apparently he is considered too intense, would ever make.

After that visit Enjolras cries himself to sleep. He tries to keep quiet, but he is sure his reading cellmate must hear some of it. It doesn’t break his silence. And why would it?  

They have a small celebration on the day before Valjean’s release, as the three men demand that Enjolras tell them stories of what the outside world is like now. They don’t get too much beyond current events. "What of cars?" Mabeuf wonders, eyes alive. Enjolras has a disappointingly sparse knowledge in that field. "Fuck that, what of movies?"

He feels a poor source of entertainment, and briefly regrets that he did not use his freedom to take in some of the more leisurely aspects of life. Never would he have thought he would feel bad for not taking an interest in television shows. Outside, he was always too busy for such trivialities, throwing himself into his causes without hesitation. He talks about the documentaries he used to watch with Combeferre on rare nights he was forced to take a break, and it says something about what prison does to you that all three men listen with unfeigned interest. 

Valjean is younger by decades than Mabeuf and Myriel, who are both in their seventies. Originally he was incarcerated for theft, he explained once, but his attempts at escape lead to a harsher sentence eventually.

 _Keep your head down_ , Marius reminds him inside of his head, a steady mantra whenever he finds himself alone and once more filled with tension. Two months are down. Fifty-eight to go at most. Oh god, fifty-eight. How can he possibly keep this up for fifty-eight months? How do people keep this up for decades?

He asks Mabeuf and Myriel about his cellmate once, as they sit out in the courtyard soaking up what little sunshine there is to go around. His cellmate is outside as well, using the gym equipment. Enjolras takes note of an astounding figure, heavily imposing and as broad as an oak tree. He is sweating through his orange uniform, but unlike the other inmates working out he does not take it off. Most others are in tank tops, some completely shirtless, showing off hardened bodies and a worrisome amount of tattoos. His black curls stick to his forehead and his eyes look far away. Where do you go to, in your head? Enjolras has questions he never dares ask. 

Enjolras knows plenty of people with tattoos, of course. But those are all innocent, aesthetically purposeful ones. Combeferre favors scientific ones. Jehan has half a sleeve of different flowers. Courfeyrac has one tattoo, which he got on an anniversary with Combeferre once upon a drunken night. Bahorel has one around his arm, an allusion to his roots he has not cared to explain to his friends. Feuilly has a Polish poem about communism on his back. Joly has none. Bossuet has an eagle on his foot, the result of taking on a drunken dare. Most of the tattoos he sees here are symbols that do not bode well. They look crudely done, the majority of them. Putting inmates into categories. Everybody has a place in prison. Everybody has to belong somewhere. These tattoos assure a modicum of protection, he imagines. 

He stares at his cellmate longer than he should, perhaps. Mabeuf exhales loudly.

"He goes by R. No idea what he is in for, he's a quiet one. He keeps to himself and everyone allows him to keep to himself. Stays out of trouble, been here a long time, due out in a few years, I imagine."

It is a single letter, but it is more than he’s been able to find out on his own. What does it stand for?

"On account of his imposing figure, you see. And his face is something of a deterrent to anyone who’d like to try something funny. It just lets you know that many have tried and failed to gain the upper hand."

Enjolras has noticed the traces of abuse his cellmate’s – R’s – face has taken; a nose with several bumps, a silvery scar that slashes his right eyebrow in half, angry lines on his neck. Half of his earlobe is missing. R’s face, Enjolras will freely admit, shocks, at first. Those eyes of his, though, they’re large and strangely beautiful, all things considered. His lips are full and pouty, rosy in color and his tone of skin is warm and brown. He revisits his theory about a smile doing wonders for his general appeal, and thinks it would still hold. But when R does not keep his face carefully neutral it is because it is pulled into an expression of anger or confusion, sometimes reluctance.

Yes, Enjolras does not doubt that if he so chose, R could be very dangerous, with a face that does its level best to obscure any beauty one might find. Not that Enjolras places any stock in beauty whatsoever, but even he knows that a bias exists towards those deemed conventionally attractive, like him. He isn't sure that could ever work in his favor in prison though. 

All Enjolras has seen so far is that R reads – In seven different languages. He has seen French, he has seen English, and he has seen Spanish. Once or twice he has seen German and Arabic. Latin and Greek, occasionally, though he has observed that his cellmate takes longer to finish those books than the others. He savors what he can find in Latin and Greek. It is too bold to assume that he prefers the classics, but Enjolras puts it down as a theory in his head.

If he does not spend some time theorizing about his fellow inmates, he gets lost in his anger about the injustice men still face even once they are supposed to atone for what they've done. Thinking about his cellmate is a way to keep himself sane, he tries to rationalize. 

+

The tender peace he has managed for himself cannot hold. Enjolras never thought it would, but he had allowed himself a faint hope. Every day passed in conversation with Mabeuf and Myriel had made him feel like he had found a little place to just exist until time relieves him of his terrors. Three months and seventeen days into his sentence, during shower time, he is shoved into the wall by a body much larger and hairier than his own. He feels disgustingly hot breath tickle his neck and a hand around his throat that presses tight.

 _Keep your head down,_ Marius screams at him, like an angry general at his disobedient troops. But this time Enjolras wants to scream back. There are things he will not suffer, he cannot. He cannot let them break him this way without a fight. He is not made to be subservient. 

"Tight ass you’ve got there," a taunting voice comments as he feels nails dig into one ass cheek, trying to pull him open with one hand.  Enjolras clenches his fists and squirms, ready for a fight, five year sentence be damned, when a second voice interrupts, deep and cold. It is commanding, leaving no space to brook arguments.

"Leave him be, Babet, that piece of prime real-estate is sold off already."

A shiver runs up Enjolras’ spine. He does not know the second speaker, but he has seen Babet around. Babet, broad and oaf-like, runs with the high-ups in their prison. They’ve got p.m. stick and poked into their arms. Patron-Minette, Mabeuf had explained within his first week. To be avoided at all costs. And now some of them have taken an interest in him. He cannot place the second voice anywhere. It is unfamiliar and puts him even more on edge. He will not be broken this way, not without fighting with all he’s got.

Enjolras hears his assailant laugh.

"You’re claiming him, seriously?"

"You really think I’m going to say no to an ass like that?" The voice snorts, issuing a challenge. "He’s mine, so best scamper."

"Parnasse will have something to say about it."

Enjolras knows who Montparnasse is. That one is the undisputed leader of Patron-Minette, and the guy everyone defers to after he brutally clawed his way to the top of prison hierarchy by eliminating anyone that posed a threat to him. Montparnasse has made this prison into his kingdom, and he rules it as he sees fit. Enjolras, under any circumstance a proponent of democracy, dislikes it but has accepted it as his new way of life. Prison is something he cannot change from the inside. He hasn’t interacted with Montparnasse yet.

"Parnasse can be next in line if he’s so hungry for my cock," the second voice leers, unbothered, and Enjolras flinches. The first guy – the p.m. lieutenant Babet, apparently - gives up, sufficiently cowed. As quick as he can Enjolras turns around to take on the new guy, fists up, only to come up short when he is confronted with a fully-nude R, nodding at him.

"Finish your shower, _ange_ ," his cellmate tells him, leaving him completely alone. Enjolras shivers away his remaining water spray and then hurries out of there.

+

Things are different as they try to fall asleep that night in their respective cots. R has not spoken a word to him since the shower incident. But his voice is everywhere inside of Enjolras. _He’s mine_. A claim Enjolras did not want.

 _Mine_.

But it saved him, evidently. His voice digs into Enjolras’ veins, so different from what he imagined. He had expected warmth, not cold, not this deadly ice that has frozen his insides. It is so incongruent with those vivacious brown eyes, unbroken when he reads.

R holds enough sway that his barbaric claim is respected, if begrudgingly. And R does not follow up on said claim, does not even make a move to - does not even look at Enjolras, much less address him.

"Thank you," Enjolras says into the dark.

"Don’t."

The answer is brief and leaves no room for interpretation, cold as the spray of their showers. R wants nothing to do with him. Why did he step in, then? The goodness of his heart? Common decency? Enjolras does not know.

 _Finish your shower_ , _ange_. He hears those words over and over again, and somehow they get stuck inside of him just a bit more than the others do. Perhaps it is the way R said his name.

He takes to showering with Mabeuf and Myriel nearby, just in case, politely averting his eyes from their age-battered bodies. There is no repeated incident. No one makes an attempt to come close to narrowing their circling. He still feels eyes follow him wherever he goes. He hears murmurs of discontent but reluctant acceptance. _R’s_ , he hears whispered here and there. It feels odd to have a protector that does not really want anything to do with him. He loathes the fact that he needs one, that he cannot be respected in his own right. And yet, he is glad, because he can imagine many alternatives that would be worse.

He tells Courfeyrac about his cellmate, fully aware that he isn’t giving the journalist anything solid with a brief physical description and a letter he isn’t one hundred percent certain has anything to do with his cellmate’s actual name. There aren’t many ways to fact check in prison, after all. And if R has been here for as long as Mabeuf and Myriel say he has, he has had ample time to invent himself exactly the way he wants to. Enjolras pointedly avoids mentioning the shower incident. No need to make them worry when nothing happened.

"You’ve gotta get me more than that, _ange_ ," Courfeyrac sighs. He backtracks when he watches Enjolras flinch. That nickname no longer feels good out of his friends’ mouths. It is too much now, much too tainted by incarceration. He wishes someone would use his first name again, but Les Amis got out of that habit years ago, and to demand a reversal now would raise suspicions. He isn’t sure he even knows Bossuet’s first name, to be perfectly honest.

"I’m glad he is looking out for you," Combeferre admits, pushing his glasses up his nose as he is wont to when confused, "Even if his motives are unclear as of yet. Please do be careful though."

+

"I liked Virgil when I read him at University," Enjolras comments one night as he watches R read the Aeneid. R does not tear his eyes from the page.

"Why are you talking?" Cold, always cold, his voice. Not at all what Enjolras thinks it really is.   

"You confuse me," Enjolras admits, lacing his fingers together. R looks up, finally. Brown eyes narrow.

"What confuses you, _mon ange_?"

"Why you would protect me if you want nothing from me?"

"Would you rather I demand payment? Feel free to suck my cock if it will make you feel better," R retorts, flippantly. Enjolras recoils from the sheer vulgarity. R lets out a humorless snort. "Thought as much."

"I still want to know you."

"I am not worth getting to know, _ange_." He looks tired as he rubs a hand across his face. Enjolras knows he does not sleep much. The constant dark circles only ever get deeper, the lines around his mouth pulled tighter. He carries tension he never releases, not even when he pummels the boxing bag until they have to replace it. R’s physicality is most of his strong point, admittedly. Enjolras watches him train more often than he cares to admit.  

"And what if I disagree?" Enjolras challenges, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. "You read in seven languages without any perceivable difficulty. That interests me."

"The library is free. You can read any book you’re interested in. There are dictionaries to be had too. Don’t bother _me_ because you’re bored in here. In fact, don’t talk to me at all if you know what is good for you."

There is an air of finality in his voice. Enjolras gives up, for the night. But he does wish R a good night that isn’t reciprocated. He feels like he owes R now and it doesn’t sit easy with him, but he feels even more uneasy at R’s absolute refusal to talk.

+

Enjolras is approached by four men as he sits in the courtyard with Mabeuf and Myriel. Both of his elderly companions sigh and crack their knuckles in anticipation of a fight with the heads of Patron Minette.

"Rumor has it you’re an Enjolras." The leader wastes no time with small talk. Many inmates are unnaturally blunt, Enjolras has realized. Those inside for a long time are. R, for example, refuses to even pretend he has anything but contempt and some pity for Enjolras. Prison has worn down their need for unnecessary subterfuge or tact, not that they don’t excel at it when necessary. Enjolras takes a look at the man. He’s got dark hair, slicked backwards with either water or gel, and his eyes are blue and calculating. He looks strong. Most men are, and Enjolras is uncomfortably aware of that fact.

"Thought I told you to leave him alone, Parnasse," R is by his side in an instant, appearing out of seemingly thin air. Enjolras always keeps an eye out for him as subtly as he can but he hadn’t seen him anywhere today.

"That was a different deal, my dear R," Montparnasse sneers. "Struck before we found out he’s the offspring of that racist piece of shit senator."

R hums thoughtfully, looking at Enjolras in an amused fashion. Here he is so different from the stoic and cold man Enjolras knows at night. Warmth seeps into the air, Enjolras thinks, and then chides himself for his senseless thoughts.

"You’re a Christian, aren’t you?" R asks Parnasse, out of the blue.

"You know I am," the man growls in response and, oh, Enjolras notes, there is history here, more than he originally thought. He vaguely remembers a comment made about Montparnasse being hungry for R’s cock. Back then he thought Montparnasse would have issue with someone undermining his authority, but maybe it is more directly related to R than he thought.

"You’ve read the good book of your people. _The sins of the father shall not be visited upon the son_ ; I believe it reads from Exodus on. I know you understand that better than anyone, Parnasse." The last sentence is a little softer than anticipated. At long last Enjolras filters out a hint of the warmth he suspected R of hiding, a hint of authenticity. Enjolras sees Parnasse take a deep breath, before he looks at R differently. A deep understanding. The weight of shared years hangs between them.

"He’s your new pet then and that is that?"

"Something like that," R snorts, casting a smirk towards Enjolras, who swallows but holds his stare admirably.

"Does he know what you did?"

"He hasn’t had the chance to ask - I keep him well-occupied," R insists with a downright sinful smile playing around his full lips. They really are quite stunning when they aren’t pressed so tightly together. Montparnasse chuckles and shakes his head fondly.

"You’re a better man than I am, R, past transgressions be damned," Parnasse offers his hand to R, who shakes it.

"You know where to find me if you want a reminder of just how good I am."

"I don’t like to share, you know that," Parnasse dismisses, already turning away.

"Worth a shot," R grins, throwing in a wink for good measure. He casts one look at Enjolras. A nod, and then he turns to leave in the direction of the library. Enjolras jumps up and reaches his hand out to stop him. R stares at their clasped hands. After Enjolras doesn’t let go for a while, he meets his eye, one eyebrow raised.

"Thank you," Enjolras tires of repeating himself, but this situation merits gratitude.

"Don’t," R hisses like a feral cat. He pulls his hand away harshly as if burned then stomps off.

Mabeuf and Myriel sigh. "I wouldn’t test him, _ange_ ," Myriel counsels. Mabeuf nods thoughtfully. 

+

"What are you in for?" Enjolras asks one night, half an hour before curfew, when R ducks into the room looking harried and frantic. Probation meeting, he remembers R being pulled out of dinner for it. It caused an upheaval of speculation amongst the populace.

Enjolras is deliberately leaning against the wall by the sink in the corner, having chosen this position because it lets him purview the entirety of their cell with one glance. He feels safe in this corner, safer than sitting across from R on his cot makes him feel.  

"Murder," R says, indifferent.

"Who did you kill?" Enjolras blurts out unbidden. His heartrate accelerates. He feels a cold sheen of panicked sweat cover him. Murder was not what he had been expecting. Murder is about as serious as it gets. Fuck. Murder? Really?

"What is this, twenty fucking questions?"

"It can be, if you like," Enjolras tests the waters, going against Myriel’s advice. He likes both of the old men that constitute his companions in this hellhole, but the only person whose advice he can actually be assed to follow, and even that is an infrequent happenstance, is on the outside, hopefully keeping les Amis de L’ABC together despite its severed head.

"You’re Anaïs Enjolras’ son." He is surprised to be associated with his deceased mother instead of his very much alive father, for once.

"That isn’t a question," Enjolras answers, magnanimously confirming R’s suspicion. "But we’ll count it as one and I’ll just say you are right."

"Who did you kill?" Enjolras repeats himself, but R shakes his head, already in the process of shutting this down.

"A man."

He has so many follow up questions, but he waits, pointedly raising an eyebrow.

"What’s your favorite color?" R smirks, crossing his arms and leaning against the cell wall.

"Red, that’s a bit of a wasted question, isn’t it? Was it an accident?"

"No, it was premeditated. I wanted to kill him and so I did. I took my sweet time with it too."

R looks entirely unapologetic, nothing like Myriel when he recounted his experience with murder. He knows that some of the horror shows on his face, because R laughs, rumbling low in his hair-covered chest. "I see you’re finally catching on, _ange_. I told you, I am neither a good man nor one you want to know."

"What you did for me says something else," Enjolras protests, firmly.

"What do I have to do for you to leave me alone, _ange_? Huh? Do I need to actually try and coerce you before you realize that you should stay away?"

"You won’t," Enjolras crosses his arms, smug and secure in that knowledge. R gets up determinedly and flattens him against the wall with an effortless ease that should scare Enjolras more than it does. A murderer who killed a man in self-confessed cold blood has him entirely at his mercy. His hands are pinned and he knows that he couldn’t achieve anything by fighting back, but he doesn’t even think about it for longer than a split second.

"I _won’t_ , will I? You’re certain about that, are you?"

One of R’s knees pries his legs apart and he feels the pressure steadily increasing between his thighs. It makes his navel prickle a little. Enjolras looks up at him and calls his bluff.

"I _am_ certain. You’re doing this to try and push me away. _Don’t_."

R stares down at him, breathing heavily. Enjolras’ hands are released and he places one on R’s chest, spreading his fingers as if he could possibly feel something beneath the orange fabric. There is a ragged intake of breath and Enjolras feels warmth. His blood runs hot, just as he suspected.

R’s hand covers his own, but only for the express purpose of tearing it off. He cannot take the tenderness, it seems.

+

Courfeyrac can’t do much more with the fact that R is in for murder, if he doesn’t know how long he has been in for. That entire tidbit achieves only worried glances exchanged between Ferre and him. The concern is evident, if even Bossuet warns him to steer clear of him if he can manage it.

 _Keep your head down_ , General Pontmercy screams and is ignored.

But the curiosity is eating him alive, he has to know. He knows R is good, or, well, has good inside of him. Never did Enjolras think he could justify murder, but now he longs to find something to vindicate his savior. But said savior will not answer Enjolras and largely ignores him. (He gets R to partake in twenty questions again for a while and learns that he was fifteen when he killed that man. Then Grantaire promptly asks him if he usually tops because he simply cannot bear relinquishing even a tiny ounce of control, and for once Enjolras is the one to end the conversation, deeply embarrassed at having been read so easily. He even foregoes correcting R that he is very much flexible in regards to switching.) R gets close to issuing a threat of coercion a few more times, but both of them know now that he will never follow through. Touch starved as Enjolras is, he grows used to R infiltrating his personal space just to breathe at him and stare angrily.

And even if he did mean to ever follow through, he will run at the first sign of tenderness Enjolras shows. He has learned that as well. A simple touch to Grantaire’s chest will have him gasp, as if the touch is scalding and tearing at his skin. "Fuck you for making me care so much." He hears R whisper into the dark one night, after they've laid breathing next to each other for hours without a chance of repose in sight. 

He gets nowhere with R.

So, he once more goes against Myriel’s advice, ignores Mabeuf’s well-meant offer that he could find out for Enjolras. They know that R showed up in this facility about twelve years ago or so, but he was a transfer from Juvie back then.

He approaches Parnasse in the courtyard one sunny afternoon, who is lounging in a wife beater and sunglasses from who knows where.

"Can it really be that R’s angel doth grace us with his divine presence?" Parnasse smirks, lighting a cigarette and blowing puffs of smoke into his face before continuing. Enjolras valiantly manages not to cough. He hates cigarette smoke. "What do you want?"

"How do you know R?"

"Jealous, are we?" Parnasse taunts. Enjolras shuts his jaw determinedly. He will not be baited. "I’ll tell you the story," Parnasse shrugs, "If you do something for me."

He is loath to enter any deal with a convicted criminal. Then he remembers that he too is a convicted criminal. He might have the moral high ground against some of the inmates, but definitely not all of them. He doesn’t know the details of what landed Montparnasse in prison.

"Name your price," he presses on.

"I want you to tell me the story of your mother’s death. See, we think your father drove her to suicide and got away with it."

"Tell me your story," Enjolras shrugs, "And you’ll find out."

"Met R in Juvie when I was thirteen and my father threw me under the bus at a crime scene. Got out and he didn’t. We bonded. We fell in love. We lived happily ever after," he sneers. Enjolras raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Don’t believe me? Ah, you’d be right to. You, monsieur Enjolras, drive a hard bargain. Alas, not quite so idyllic. R was in much the same predicament and it got him a seventeen year sentence. When I got out I got my father put away instead of following in R’s footsteps. Then I got caught. Armed robbery gave me and R the reunion we both longed for with all of our hearts."

He has a feeling it isn’t that deep.

"Following in his footsteps?"

"You didn’t know he’s in for murder?" Parnasse takes a deep drag of his cigarette, savoring it. A lazy smile plays around his mouth, he enjoys trying to wind Enjolras up. Montparnasse delights in knowing things others do not. "Patricide, to be precise. That’s that story. Your turn."

"My mother killed herself because she miscarried my little sister and had chronic depression," Enjolras confesses. "I was five. My father is an asshole, but he loved her."   

Parnasse looks disappointed, but shrugs and waves Enjolras off.

+

Courfeyrac’s next visit brings new information, now that they know which year to look for.

 _Ahmed Grantaire_ , Enjolras reads about the controversial case in which a fifteen year old boy killed his mother’s boyfriend. Not his father, then. Montparnasse does not seem to know everything.

"You shouldn’t talk to Montparnasse if you can help it," Grantaire tells him that night in the dark. Word gets around fast.

"I'll stop if you start talking to me instead."

He hears an annoyed sound and almost grins. Almost. 

"You really want to get in trouble, is that it? You want to provoke a blade into your ribs? Have you no care for your own life?" 

"You don’t have many years left on your sentence," Enjolras retorts instead. He himself has almost served his first year by now. Time remains, as always, an unstoppable marching force. Sometimes he is glad for it, sometimes he despairs over it. Prison makes him ambivalent when outside he has always been singularly determined. Idle hands, he thinks, and almost snorts out loud. Marius is busy negotiating a possible parole within the next year. Courfeyrac assures him everyone is working tirelessly.

"I’ll be back inside before long," R snorts.

"Why do you say that?"

"You already know I went to prison at fifteen. I have no job experience, even if someone wanted to overlook the gross cruelty that landed me inside. It’s what happens to most of us who get a taste of freedom after too long. You unlearn how to function without the structures of prison. Freedom ends up too bittersweet for most palates to stomach for long."

"You could do with a little optimism," Enjolras chides, though his heart aches. The statistics he knows confirm what Grantaire is saying. Still, somebody should do something about that. To Enjolras, all those statistics invoke are a need to call to action his most ferocious supporters. He isn’t sure how he would feel after over a decade shut away.  

"Optimism only ever breeds misery," Grantaire sighs into the dark, "When they put me away my lawyer damn near had me convinced that I was in the right; that it was self-defense. Can you imagine I was dumb enough to believe that?"

"What if I said I knew someone who would hire you when you get out?"

"I’d say you’re cruel to get my hopes up, _ange_." Enjolras shivers when Grantaire rolls the endearment that has become all of his identity on his tongue. It still does strange things to him when R plays that particular card, and he thinks R suspects as much. His name on Grantaire’s tongue sounds like a clandestine little sugar high. It melts on a pink tongue that often darts out to wet luscious lips as he reads. That tongue drives him mad. He hates how weak his knees grow then and appreciates that nine times out of ten Grantaire will use it while he is steadily seated.

"My best friend runs a newspaper. Translators are valuable when working with international sources. You bring more to the table than you realize, R," Enjolras continues, trying for undeterred.

"Go to sleep, _ange_."

+

12 months and five days into his sentence there is another shower incident. He feels the hand on his ass before he is slammed into the wall this time and tension that might have abated a little over the past months comes rushing back in. He clenches up tightly. Myriel and Mabeuf aren’t here, they’re playing cards and soaking up the last sunrays for the day. Babet is two showers away and snorts in anticipation. How times have changed. Montparnasse watches with interest as Enjolras bats the hand away, rudely. They have not broken him and he refuses to give them a chance. Them in this case being the general forces that work against him, not Patron Minette.  Patron Minette leaves him alone, precisely because of R’s intervention.

"I wouldn’t try that, newbie. That one is spoken for." Parnasse needles gleefully. Enjolras doesn’t see the smirk but he knows it is there.

"Oh yeah?" New guy, a tall man in his forties he hasn’t seen before today, challenges. Grantaire, two showers across from him, sighs and comes over without any particular urgency.

"Yeah." One simple word and Enjolras feels goosebumps all over his body. He is protected. He hates relying on other people, but he knows he needs Grantaire. And he is thankful, whatever else he might be, that will never change. Grantaire, drawn up to full height, is both broader and a good deal taller than the newcomer.

"Can’t imagine he likes looking at that, must be nothing short of torture," the newcomer smirks, too cocky for his own good. There is an underlying sense of importance in this interaction, as the Newbie fights to carve out a place and rank in this hierarchy without fully assessing the situation. Grantaire doesn’t bat an eye, smiling wickedly. Narrowed brown eyes are not warm for all the fakeness of his smile. He doesn’t look at Enjolras as he speaks, but his words are addressed to him. "Face the wall for me, _mon_ _ange_."

Enjolras wants to protest. He doesn’t like the implication that he is an unwilling participant. He hates that aspect of R’s protection. But he trusts R. He has shared a cell with Grantaire for twelve months, and never once has the man broken faith. So he turns around and spreads his legs, like he has seen some other men do in here when participating in such arrangements. He glances over his shoulder, trying to look enticing. _Come hither_ , he thinks, hoping it shows in his eyes.

Grantaire claps the newcomer on the shoulder, who gapes while R smiles genially. "See, no need for him to face my ugly mug."

And Enjolras, because he is profoundly disturbed by the nonchalance with which Grantaire seems to accept the lie that he is entirely unattractive, decides to do something about it. He feels Grantaire’s hands, comparatively chaste as they dig into his hips to flatten him against the tiles, like mini-furnaces against his shivering skin. His lips trail against Enjolras’ neck, placing one or two open mouthed kisses there as he noses his soaked blond tendrils out of the way. Everything smells like prison-issued soap but somehow it still goes to his head. Enjolras releases an unholy moan, purposefully, and refuses to be embarrassed about it. Grantaire’s hand tightens for a second, but he shows no further reaction. He decides that means it is okay.

"Touch me, please, R," he whimpers, loud enough for those around them to hear, including the newcomer. "I want to feel you inside of me again."  

"Later, _ange_ , promise," R kisses his neck a final, decided time. "Finish your shower."

R does not even attempt to make good on his supposed _promise_ in the dark, and Enjolras knows not whether to be offended or relieved.

+

"You need to get stronger," R tells him one night, having been unusually thoughtful for the past two hours since he returned from having his request for parole denied yet again. It’s the third time he has been in an unusually reflective mood when returning from them, since that first time. "You’re easy pickings, the way you are now."

"I have you," Enjolras shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head plaintively and lying down, "don’t I?"

"Suppose someone knifes me and puts me in the hospital tomorrow. That new guy still has his eyes on you, we wounded his pride. It would have been better if you had not been as openly enthusiastic about my advances in the shower, feigned though your words may have been."

"I refuse to let them think you are doing anything to me against my will," Enjolras scowls.

"Well, I sure as hell didn’t ask you before I marked you as mine that first time, and you’re missing the point."

"You made an impromptu call for my benefit and I am grateful for it every day I don’t get assaulted, and more so on the days anyone does try something. And I don’t like the comments they make about your supposed lack of attractiveness. But fine, you can teach me self-defense then," Enjolras pouts. Grantaire snorts out a laugh Enjolras can’t interpret.

They get started the next day.

+

Mabeuf has a stroke fifteen months into Enjolras’ sentence, and dies two days later. Myriel and Enjolras are allowed to visit him in the hospital to say goodbye. He watches Myriel hold Mabeuf’s hand and kiss his cheeks and eyelids as they prepare to be parted. "Until we meet again," Mabeuf squeezes Myriel’s hand weakly, his speech slurred and severely affected. Myriel takes a moment for his composure and then reiterates.

"Yes, until we meet again, my friend."

He passes on in a semblance of peace.

"We’ve been in here together for almost forty-five years," Myriel weeps, later that day, inconsolable.

Grantaire puts a comforting hand on his shoulder in the cell, awkwardly. It is the first private contact his cellmate has ever initiated that isn’t meant to push away. Enjolras cries as well then, burrowing into Grantaire’s chest and sobbing into the ugly orange fabric. Grantaire strokes his back the entire night. When the dawn comes they find out that Myriel died peacefully in his sleep.

Enjolras latches onto Grantaire, now that his only other companions are both gone. Well, he concedes, they are free at last. Both of them were still devout in old age, despite decades of apparent hopelessness. Enjolras does not doubt that whatever sins they may have committed are well beyond atoned. If they do not find one another in the afterlife he can’t imagine anyone will.

Life as Grantaire’s shadow means long, languid days with lots of reading and little conversation. Grantaire is still wary around him, though sometimes, in the privacy of their cell, he can be coaxed into talking. He learns more about his mother’s boyfriend. The more he learns, the more he suspects that the system failed Grantaire.

A fifteen year old kills the man that has been physically abusing his mother for years and gets seventeen years in prison despite model behavior displayed at every turn. It is especially disheartening for Enjolras to witness again and again as Grantaire is denied earlier parole.

He suspects Grantaire’s religion and general ethnicity might have something to do with it, despite him having abandoned any thought of god long ago. He learns that Grantaire’s real father was killed in the Middle East, that he never knew him.

"My mother wasn’t Muslim, my father was. Taking his religion was my way of honoring his memory before I came to the conclusion that all belief is futile."

+

Sometimes they argue loud enough for a guard to bang on the door and order them to keep quiet or face consequences. It shuts R up quicker than anything, but it doesn't make either of their anger abate. Enjolras hates that R is so resigned to his supposed fate. It is as though the man is incapable of belief in a life worth living after prison. He won't tolerate any talk of reforming the prison system without cutting down every argument Enjolras makes, he is insistent on claiming that even if he ever gets out, he'll be back before long. 

Enjolras isn't stupid. And occasionally, he isn't even oblivious, though his friends would disagree. He knows that R is scared of the outside. Mabeuf and Myriel talked about it often enough, that they wouldn't even know what to do with themselves if they were ever released. In a way it was a comfort for them to die in a place they knew, but the very fact that prison had to be such a place rubs Enjolras the wrong way. He wants to convince Grantaire that there is a place for him out there, that he could introduce him to Courfeyrac. Grantaire has helped him survive in prison and Enjolras wants to be there for him when he gets out. 

R has so much potential, and it is wasted in prison. 

But he will not hear of it. Rarely does R truly get angry, but he hates when Enjolras talks about this stuff. No, the man is insistent that he does not reserve redemption. 

"Why do you fucking care so much, huh? This is a brief stint for you, ange, it's been half my life so far. I don't work outside of prison. I'll fall apart. Not letting me out is the right choice."

It makes Enjolras want to cry and it makes him want to scream. Why does he care? Why does he bother? Is it guilt? A sense of owing? Why does he care for this infuriating man?

And yet, he notices things. He notices that R takes care to stay out of trouble, that he has always stayed out of trouble. He knows, with all his heart, that R wants to get out. He wants a life that is out there. He just doesn't believe he'll ever get it, and so he resigns himself to cynicism to avoid hope he deems treacherous. 

It is heartbreaking. 

+

Newcomer, whose name they haven’t bothered to find out, watches them in the courtyard every day as Enjolras sits by Grantaire’s feet, struggling to read something in Arabic. Grantaire has been trying to teach him, and this is definitely a children’s book, but it is still hard. The days are getting colder, seventeen months into his sentence.

"He is looking at you again, _ange_ ," Grantaire says, distractedly tapping out a rhythm as a hand cards through Enjolras’ now very long blond curls. He uses his razors to shave, but he thinks he likes the long hair. Maybe he’ll keep it. He certainly likes it when Grantaire plays with it. In some ways he supposes it makes him feel like a kitten, safe and content.

"It is beyond me how he cannot accept that I am with you," Enjolras rolls his eyes, and shoots an annoyed look in the general direction of their detractor. That is another thing R does not like, when Enjolras refers to them being together. He doesn't say as much, but he tenses up. His eyes glaze over weirdly. The more he learns about Grantaire, the more he discovers that it only opens up a door to more questions. 

"Never underestimate the power of the hurt male ego. Most likely he’s straight and thinks taking you will establish dominance. Not sure he would actually get it up for a guy."

"You would?"

"I knew I was gay long before prison," Grantaire laughs, "And I don’t actually believe in using sex as a weapon or tactic."

What do you believe in, R? He wants to ask. There can't be much. He certainly doesn't believe in himself. He doesn't believe in change. He doesn't believe in the future. 

"But you’ve had sex in prison? You must have, if you’ve been inside since you were fifteen."

"What if I told you I was a virgin?" Grantaire whispers, grinning brightly. There is warmth in his eyes when he regards Enjolras like this, and Enjolras soaks it up more eagerly than he does the sunshine. This is a rare commodity.

"I’d call your bluff."

"Once more he looks right through me," Grantaire wails dramatically, coaxing a smile out of Enjolras in turn.

"Montparnasse?" Enjolras guesses.

"Among sparse others, yes," Grantaire’s fingertips massage Enjolras’ scalp as he goes back to reading.

+

Newcomer circles tight around them like a vulture, so tight that Grantaire takes to showering underneath one spray with Enjolras, to avoid any unnecessary confrontation. Enjolras knows he is being provocative when he pulls Grantaire close as soon as the man’s eyes zero in on them. It isn’t quite as bad that Grantaire feels the need to indicate something to Montparnasse, but these things can deteriorate with one sharpened toothbrush and a quiet corner. Enjolras only ever feels the tension leave him once the cell doors are locked for curfew. Grantaire is a safe haven, he will not deny it.

He lets Grantaire handle the talking, glad beyond belief because he is still trying to keep his head down and this guy is making it hard to. So he concentrates on kissing a path across Grantaire’s chest as the guy seethes and watches, following it up with soap. Grantaire never reacts past a fist clenched at Enjolras’ side once he has Enjolras pushed against the wall where he pretends to want him.

After nineteen months, Enjolras finally concedes and admits to himself that he wants Grantaire to touch him.

Why do I care? He wonders to himself late at night, and finally finds an answer. It scares him as much as it warms his chest. 

+

"I want to kiss him," he confesses to Courfeyrac, who looks shocked and torn between a smile and a horrified gasp.

"Buddy, he’s a convicted murderer," Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose.  

"It really isn’t that black and white. He’s a good man. You’d both like him, if you knew him."

His friends don’t look convinced. But Enjolras will not be deterred. He wants Grantaire. In every sense of the word.

+

"What are you doing?" Grantaire whispers into the darkness when Enjolras sits down on his cot one night. That action alone took weeks of working up to. The cot creaks a little under the added weight but there is no reaction from the corridors, so he suspects the guards are in the break room playing cards and sharing a beer, as usual. He stretches out fingers that search for Grantaire’s face, settling on his cheek just above his beard. He hears that sharp gasp, so familiar now.

He feels Grantaire's tension and hesitation. 

"I want to kiss you." Enjolras says. "Will you let me?"

"Yeah, okay," Grantaire whispers, voice awed. Enjolras does.

Grantaire kisses well, even if he keeps his response carefully controlled. Enjolras pulls away after a frustrating amount of effort does not seem to faze his control. "Are you holding yourself back from kissing me properly?" He accuses.

Grantaire sighs. "I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into here, _mon ange_."

"Stop that, R," Enjolras pleads, "Please, _please,_ can’t you accept that I want you?"

"It’s Stockholm Syndrome, or some form of it, it has to be. I’m all you’ve got in here and you’re projecting-"

"Don’t you trust me to know my own mind? I appreciate your concerns, but this isn’t exactly a recent development, I’ve thought about this and considered my next course of action for months. Will you kiss me properly?"

Grantaire does and it is wonderful. Their tongues are introduced to one another and the way Grantaire opens him up and seems to massage every crevice of his mouth is intoxicating and frankly explosive. He wants. Oh, Enjolras wants everything, with a burning passion. He feels alive, more alive than he has felt since his incarceration. Grantaire is personally resuscitating him, breathing new life into parts of him long thought dead and defeated. The press of the fabric becomes Enjolras’ new worst enemy as he hastens to strip both of them. Skin, he needs to feel skin, needs Grantaire’s warmth. More, more, more.

This is everything. This is so important. This is worth fighting for. 

Only when Enjolras strips Grantaire of his jumpsuit to put his mouth where he really wants it does Grantaire put a stop to it again. A sharp tug of his hair leaves him moaning but despite the glint in R’s lovely brown eyes he will not be moved. "Whoa, hey, can’t let you do that."

"I _really_ love doing it," Enjolras dismisses, "Don’t worry."

"I can’t say for sure that I’m clean, and we’re not exactly rolling in condoms here. You’re not putting your mouth there. Spit can’t transmit that kind of shit. If you really want this we gotta be careful with any other bodily fluids."

"Oh." Enjolras realizes, shocked. It takes him only a few seconds to recover. "Hands, then?" He can’t believe he didn’t even think about it. R turns the reading light on to carefully check his fingers for any nicks and cuts, but finds none, so he gives him the green light. Grantaire looks amazed as Enjolras takes him into his fist. Then his face goes mostly slack until he bites down on his own fist to stifle his noises. They sleep in one cot from that night on.

+

Grantaire has a Grandmother somewhere in France, he reveals one night when Enjolras asks as they are tangled in one another, warmth jumping from one body to the other like a little ping pong ball. She is too weak to make the trip more than once a year, so usually she comes by on Christmas, but she writes him letters sometimes.

"My mother’s mother," he confirms when Enjolras asks. Enjolras’ hands are curled into Grantaire’s chest hair, smelling of sex and sweat. Utterly wonderful, he thinks as he inhales deeply. R laughed at his antics at first, but he just accepts it now.

Kissing Grantaire is wonderful, and Enjolras wants to do it all the time. He hates prison. There are countless things wrong with the French system, but this is a bright spot in the darkness. Grantaire will kiss him for hours and never take it further unless Enjolras begs him with a weak voice to ‘ _touch me, please’_. It feels like an unfair amount of bliss. Days are long and tense as they navigate everything, but nights are as close to perfect as it gets without actual freedom. Kissing Grantaire is a damn good imitation of what it feels like to taste freedom.

He wishes Grantaire would accept it, but too often it seems to him that R indulges his desires and excuses them as 'temporary folly'. Enjolras doesn't know what to do. 

Grantaire flat out refuses to fuck him, no matter how much Enjolras begs. Rationally, he knows Grantaire is only being responsible, but he gets tired of being responsible when he is barely holding onto the edge of a cliff called ‘reason’ which every night with Grantaire threatens to disturb, like a boot grinding down on the last, slippery, hand keeping him dangling above the deep end.

+

"I have an idea," Enjolras whispers one night, as Grantaire is kissing his neck. He had another parole meeting today, and was denied yet again. It pains Enjolras, but at the same time he is selfishly glad to be able to keep him.

"I’m not fucking you, _ange_ ," he protests, exasperated.

"Fuck my thighs," Enjolras demands, breathily. Grantaire stops, furrows his brows. In his lap, Enjolras’ grinding halts when strong, wonderfully strong hands hold him in place. The friction is killing him. He needs. Oh god, he needs so much.

"That’s what you want?"

Enjolras pointedly maintains eye contact as he spits into his own hand and spreads the fluid around the inside of his thighs. He watches Grantaire lick his lips, mesmerized. "That won’t be enough lube," he maintains. Enjolras leans forward to capture his lips for a second, then shuffles closer to Grantaire until their chests are pressed together as tightly as they can manage.

"Add your own," he prompts, aiming for low and seductive and somehow hitting the mark. He feels R’s skin break out in goosebumps and preens.  

Grantaire does add his spit, and Enjolras rolls over for him gleefully. The friction of Grantaire’s cock against his perineum and balls is new and exciting and the clamp of Grantaire’s hand over his mouth reminds him that he is too loud again, as most times.

"God, _ange,_ you’re gorgeous. I can’t believe you want me. I don’t deserve this. None of this. You’re amazing. I don’t deserve this."

"Call me by my name, R," Enjolras pleads. His voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper around R’s fingers.

"Julien," R exhales into his ear, licking a long stripe along Enjolras’ neck. "My Julien. My precious Julien. Are you going to come for me?"

"Yes, yours," Enjolras confirms, interlacing their fingers as Grantaire thrusts more frantically. "Only yours, R, only ever yours. Make me yours. Tell me you’ll never want another."

"Never." R swears it all too readily. "No one but you, Julien. As long as you want me, you’re mine."

Even in the throes of passion R insists on giving him an out.

"My Grantaire," Enjolras moans as he comes. R follows him quickly.

+

"Parole," Enjolras asks, sitting across the table from a beaming Marius in the small office of the warden. "Parole after twenty-four months served?"

He has served twenty-three of them now. Life in prison has become a settled routine. He would even go as far as to say he is used to it. Marius looks at him, bright-eyed and excited. "How on earth did you do that?"

"They got the cop you assaulted on several counts of undue violence, and it made them reconsider your case. The rest of your sentence has been commuted to one year of parole."

"Marius, you’re a genius, opinions on Napoleon be damned. Have you told the others?"

He’ll get to embrace his friends again. All of them. One month. Only one more month and he’ll have Courfeyrac and Ferre and Jehan and Bahorel and Joly and Bossuet and sweet Feuilly again.

"They’re already busy preparing for your return."

+

He almost races to the courtyard, where R is playing cards with Montparnasse for a change, making conversation. He spots Newbie, christened The Vulture as he is no longer technically new, observe them from across the yard, unable to hide all traces of his concern. Apparently he has made threats. Otherwise R wouldn’t be openly consorting with Montparnasse. A clear power move, designated to show that he is in favor with the high ups. Enjolras can read these situations now. He grinds to a halt before he bowls him over in sheer enthusiasm.

"The meeting went well, I take it?" Grantaire grins up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks at Enjolras. R’s meeting last night was another let down.

"I need to talk to you," Enjolras urges, relenting and breaking out into a smile.

"Gosh," Montparnasse snorts, "You two are really stupid over each other, aren’t you?"

Grantaire hugs him tight when Enjolras tells him the good news in their cell, but something clouds over in his eyes. Resignation, he thinks. To Grantaire this was always inevitable. 

"I’ll wait for you-" Enjolras pants as they grind against one another that night, sweaty bodies making for optimal traction.

"Don’t." Grantaire shuts him up with kisses, hot and insistent. "Just don’t."

He’s got some time left on his sentence, Enjolras knows, but he does not care. He wants Grantaire forever.

+

Their last night together, Grantaire collects both of their spit and takes both of them in his broad hand while working him open with his fingers, nailing his prostate with spectacular accuracy. A special goodbye, he calls it with a seemingly carefree wink. But Enjolras has known him for two years now. Grantaire is hurting, and he knows why. He will simply have to convince Grantaire that he means it. He wants to be with Grantaire. Freedom won't make him reconsider. Freedom will only open up so many new possibilities.

"I love you," Enjolras whimpers as he comes. Grantaire shudders with pleasure and spills over as well.

"I love you too, my Julien. So much."

+

Courfeyrac leaps into his arms the second the gates shut behind him and promptly declares that he can’t call him a twink anymore. "You’re so built now, my god."

One by one he gets passed around along all of his friends. There’s Combeferre, tall and still more spindly than broad, like Enjolras used to be. Then Joly and Bossuet scoop him up in their arms, all four of them sliding together like they’ve practiced the art of group hugging long ago. He remembers they have, they’ve been dating the same girl for a year now. God, Enjolras missed so much while inside. Bahorel is of a similar stature to Grantaire and it chokes him up when he lifts him up. Jehan, though his cheek still bears deep lines made by the officer that caused all this shit, hugs him the tightest, and their cheeks press together. He feels the scars.

All of them showed up to welcome him. Even Feuilly got a rare day off and pats Enjolras’ cheek gently as he pulls him into a hug.

Enjolras allows one night of carefree celebration before he informs Les Amis of his new plan to take on the prison system. He tells them about R. He doesn't tell them he is a murderer, that is R's story to tell, but he does let them know how he feels about the man. After that, most seem intrigued and willing to meet him. 

+

Grantaire stares at him wide-eyed when he appears on the other side of the glass to pick up the call. He looks horrible. Enjolras immediately recognizes the look as anxiety. There’s an air of expectancy. His hair is messed up and the dark circles beneath his eyes are deeper than ever. What has his R so worried?

"What are you doing here?"

"I told you I would wait for you, didn’t I? Were you under the impression that would mean we wouldn’t see each other until your sentence is finally up?"

"I was under the impression you would forget about me," R’s voice is small, and he rubs his eyes to stave off any obvious show of emotion. "You really should. Better than to waste your time with a doomed man."

"Don’t," Enjolras says immediately.

He isn’t very talkative, he just stares at Enjolras mostly, and so it falls to him to pick up the slack in conversation. Enjolras talks about his parole officer and the peaceful approach Les Amis are taking for now, petitions and letter-writing and fundraisers. He knows what R thinks of the kind of protest like the one which lead to his incarceration. (Namely, he made Enjolras promise, in a moment of uncontained sentimentality, not to get in a fight without him there to protect him. He meant in regard to prison, rationally, but Enjolras has chosen to extend that promise to the outside world. He wants R by his side. Always.)

Grantaire volunteers a bit of information about his new cellmate.

"Not as pretty as you are," Grantaire grins wickedly, looking him up and down lasciviously. In hindsight, he should have known that Grantaire reverting to flippancy never boded well for anything. It was nothing but deflection. Ever. 

The next two times go much the same. Enjolras will try to talk about something serious, about their future, and Grantaire will counter with outrageous flirtation that leaves Enjolras red-faced and uncomfortably tight in his pants.

He gets a little busy for a while, trying to breathe new life into their group without violating parole. He doesn't forget about Grantaire, the man is never far from his mind, but somehow time passes too quickly on the outside. 

The fourth time he tries to visit, the guard looks at him, stumped. He first tries to tell Enjolras he isn’t at liberty to say, but Enjolras knows him from his time inside and pulls out his wallet with a greatly exaggerated sigh.

"Mr. Grantaire was paroled a week ago." Twenty euros get him that much.

"Paroled?" Enjolras asks, disbelieving. "They wouldn’t grant him parole for two whole years. What made them suddenly change their mind?"

The guard, who remembers Enjolras well, it seems, furrows his brow. He forks over fifty more euros. "Mr. Grantaire opted out of parole seven times over the last two years. He renegotiated three weeks ago."

Enjolras closes his eyes, frustrated, as he lets the truth of that sink in. After every meeting with his lawyer, Grantaire had shrugged nonchalantly and said something cynical like ‘guess I’ll stay’ or ‘they love me here, what can I say?’, when really he had stayed of his own volition? _No_ , a little voice in his mind tells him, _he stayed for you. Because he knew you needed him_.

Fuck. He needs to find Grantaire. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's lots of inaccuracies in here, probably. But I hoped you enjoyed it anyway. Leave me some feedback c:


End file.
